LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap. Copyright No. 

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^35 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 







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THE LILACS 



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CURTS & JENNINGS 
CINCINNATI CHICAGO ST. LOUIS 



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...61683 

COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY 
THE WESTERN METHODIST BOOK CONCERN. 



TO MY WIFE 





'Y^HIS fell to me, to strike the strings 

Of viine ozvn harp with strenuoits hand, 
Refreshed to tell the Joy that rings 
Through all the course of cotninoti things, 
Believing soine would understand. 

No tale is here of those old days 

When warriors we?it i?i armor drest ; 
Melodious words and honeyed lays 
Seem all too smooth to fitly phrase 
The making of the mighty West. 



No eagle's siveep, as, round and round. 

He climbs the amplitude of air 
On fearless wing, will here be found ; 
The warbling zvhite-throaV s lotv, clear sound 

And wavering flight is all I dare. 

5 



PROEH 

Here winds the woodbine, wet with dew, 
And here the canes of cat-tails grow ; 
Here lift the bells of larkspurs blue. 
And morning-glories such as grew 
From out the loam of long ago, " 

Here doth the swallow write her rimes 
O71 the palimpsest of the pool ; 

The chevroned blackbird fifes his tunes ; 

The crocks of cream, like golden moons ^ 
Make twilight in the dairy cool. 

Here blows the sce^it by sweetbrier made ; 

Here cameo acorns strike the sod; 
The glow-worm^ s lantern lights the glade', 
The smile of stars on snow-fields laid. 

Where earth, asleep, doth dream of God. 

One heaped-tip harvest now is vii7ie ; 

Faring so far with 7iature hath 
Healed mine own heart ; aJid if oJie li?ie 
Shall win me fellowship with thine, 

Then co^neth in my after77iath. 




CONTENTS 



Proem, .-- 

Knee Deep, g 

When the GoIvD is on the Wili^ow, - - - - 12 

The Sugar Camp, 16 

The Country Road, 20 

His Sweetheart's Throat, - - 23 

"Stand By," - 26 

He leadeth Me, 28 

Where the Oak Log Crossed the Stream, - - - 33 

O Christmas Day, ^6 

"His Mark," ^S 

Mirror Lake, 39 

"At Early Candle Light," 41 

" Dead in Khartoum," 4, 

The Old Trail, 45 

O Christmas Tree, 48 

Easter Morning, cq 

'Logan of Illinois," 5^ 

Our White Ladye, ---..•... cc 

The Breadwinners' Ballad, 57 

On the Timber-Line, 61 

Sassafras, 63 

"Four Feet on the Fender," 65 

" The River of Lost Soui,s," 68 

The Whistling Boy, 71 

7 



8 CONTENTS 

PAGE 

" Thh Lilacs," 74 

" What You Did Not Say," 77 

" Hardscrabble and Highstbeple," - - - - 79 

Comrade Hayes, - - - - 8i 

"The Old Cider Press," 83 

" The Boy Who Never Returned," 85 

James Newton Matthews, 87 

"Joseph," 88 

" Love Is Enough," 90 

" All 's Well," 92 

" Pretty Soon," 94 

"What Is Your Life?" 96 

" The Day We Seined the Dam," ... - 98 

" The Old Zion Church," 100 

" Right On," 102 

The Back Log's Blaze, 107 

" Taylor of Africa," 109 

The Boy We Never Saw, in 

"Mary," 114 

The Bluffs of Kickapoo, 116 

"Victor Hugo, .--- 120 

The Last Sermon, 122 

Something in the Summer, 125 

Where the Cork Goes Down, ------ 131 

Where Are the Heroes? 134 

"Jim's Meeting," 136 

The Brook, 140 

The Dogwood Tree, 144 

God's Manuscript, - - 146 

The Unknown, - - - - 147 

On Christmas Eve, 149 

Common Things, - - - - 151 

Pictures of the Past, 153 



"KNEE DEEP" 




iiHEY call " Knee deep, knee deep," 
to-night in the marsh below, 
Down by the bank where the rank 

sword-grasses and calamus grow ; 
They are the toilers who make the 

bells for the winter sprites. 
All keeping time to a rhyme they 
work thro' the summer nights. 
While up from the swampy forge the sparks of the fire- 
flies rise 
O'er the pool where wading lilies make love, thro' half- 
shut eyes, 
To the whippoorwill, who scolds like a shrew at the 

fluffy owl, 
While the night-hawk shuffles by, like a monk in a 
velvet cowl, 



lo "KNEE DEEP" 

And the bat weaves inky weft thro' the white star-beams 

that peep 
Down thro' the cypress boughs, wh^re the frogs all sing 

" Knee deep." 

Strange that the spell of a song should summon a man 

like me 
Back thro' the bygone years to the scenes that used to be, 
When earth was hid from heaven by one rose-hedge, and 

through 
This bourne the blessed angels looked, and asphodel 

odors blew; 
Strange the invisible choir, deep hid in the swaying 

sedge, 
Should woo my mind to wander again down to the 

water's edge ; 
But whenever I hear that carol clear, across the wide 

morass, 
All the evening calm and the twilight balm into my 

being pass; 
From oiF my soul the sorrows roll, and I feel my spirit leap 
With exultant joy as when, a boy, I shouted back, 

" Knee deep !" 

Knee deep I wade in the winding brook with buttercups 

o'erblown — 
The gold upon its rippled breast half hidden and half 

shown ; 



"KNEE DEEP" ii 

Knee deep in the billows of marigolds, across the mead- 
ows fair, 

That dance upon the wanton winds and toss their yellow 
hair; 

Knee deep where the bubbles of clover break upon the 
summer sea, 

As thick as the stars that shine upon the breast of 
eternity ; 

Knee deep in litter of autumn leaves I rustle toward the 
place 

Where the rabbit unaffrighted sits, and washes her inno- 
cent face; 

Song of the quivering culms and osiers, I am wading 
again, in truth, 

Knee deep in the stream of Memory, that flows from the 
land of Youth. 




WHEN THE GOLD IS ON THE WILLOW 




HEN the gold is on the willow, 

and the purple on the brier, 
Not hoary hair or heavy care 

can still my wild desire 
To race across the uplands, over 

Memory's tender turf, 
And dive out of my sorrows in 

the dogwood's bloomy surf 
O blue were violets in our youth, 
and blue were April skies, 
.And blue the early song-bird's wings, but bluer were 

the eyes 
That, in that land of long ago, looked thro' the window 

pane, 
And saw the tulips nod to us amid the slanting rain. 



WHEN THE GOLD IS ON THE WILLOW 13 

Where all the dusk was glowing with our ruddy cottage 

fire, 
When the gold was on the willow, and the purple on the 

brier. 

When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the 

brier, 
The ducats of the dandelions have paid old Winter's 

hire, 
And sent him shuffling northward in garb of tattered 

snow; 
White-tasseled birches after him their balmy odors 

throw. 
Carousing in the bramble brake the brown bees, booz- 
ing, sip, 
And up the river's cataracts the shining salmon slip. 
The schoolboy's spirit leaveth him upon the weary 

seat, 
And over loamy furrows leaps, with lightsome heart, to 

greet 
The chipmunk on the mossy wall, the bullfrog in the 

mire, 
When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the 

brier. 

When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the 

brier, 
He whistles the cantata of the blackbird's noisy choir, 



14 WHEN THE GOLD 15 ON THE WILLOW 

And all the murmurous music of a manumitted stream 
Sings soft around his naked feet, where shallow ripples 

gleam, 
As if the loops of crystal wherein the lad doth wade 
Had threaded through the lilies of some Paradise 

arcade, 
And little laughing angels had tucked their tunics 

high. 
To plash across its limpid shoals before it left the sky ; 
And still it lilts the melody of lute, and harp, and lyre. 
When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the 

brier. 

When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the 

brier, 
It my be sin to say it, but I fear that I shall tire 
Of heaven's eternal summer, and sometimes I will 

yearn 
To see, across the greening swale, a budding maple 

burn. 
My soul can ne'er be satisfied where sweet Spring never 

hath 
Her way along the mountain side or by the meadow 

path, 
Where kingcups never catch the sun, or bluebells mock 

the sky, 
Or trout beneath the foam-wreaths hide, or bass jump at 

the fly, 



WHEN THE GOLD IS ON THE WILLOW 



15 



And, in some homesick moment, for a furlough I '11 

inquire, 
When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the 

brier. 




THE SUGAR CAMP 

HEN you want a treat, delicious 
to eat 

i'^^'JiM'S/'/f I P bees; 



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March snow, to a bush of 
sugar-trees ; 
Step down the hill, when all is still, 
and soft blue smoke is curled 
In the frosty haze, where ice-gems blaze, when sundown 

takes the world. 
No honey of flowers in this world of ours, no sap of the 

Southern cane. 
Melts on the lip like the sweets that drip from a wounded 

maple's grain; 
And if you take up a gourd or a cup of the plain old- 
fashioned stamp, 
And sip some juice, you will then turn loose and shout 
in the sugar camp. 

The giants there have strength to spare; their seed no 

man has sown; 
But the Lord, who willed our good, has tilled and tended 

them alone. 



THE SUGAR CTHP 17 

One hundred j-ears of smiles and tears — of the sunshine 
and the dew — 

Have gone to build the tree that spilled its blood to- 
day for you. 

O to wander free, as I used to be, through that grand 
primeval grove. 

Meandering slow, as I used to go, with the sled and the 
team I drove ! 

Do n't talk to me of the barley-bree, that steeps in a still- 
house damp; 

There never was wine came out of the vine like the sap 
of a sugar camp. 

What are stately palms in the Syrian calms, or gardens 

of olives dim. 
To one w^ho goes where the mighty rows of the maples 

make way for him, 
When the sap runs free as the melody of the robin above 

the shed, 
With the whole white earth beneath him and the whole 

blue sky o'erhead? 
For the happy man looks into the pan where the amber 

sweetness swirls. 
And sees the face and lightsome grace of the best of the 

country girls, 
And he seems to see that home to be, where, under the 

well-trimmed lamp. 
His wife doth wait, when he comes home late from work 

in the sugar camp. 



i8 THE SUGT^R C?TMP 

So he drives his sleigh down a winding way, along the 

moonlit lanes, 
To where the light of a farmhouse, bright, shines from 

the window-panes; 
Then, cuddled snug in the ample rug, o'er the snowy 

roads they whirr, 
While his sweetheart eats the spicy sweets he made that 

day for her. 
With tinkle of bells and song that swells, how gleaming 

miles unroll ; 
And he tastes, so plain, the flavor again as he takes his 

lover's toll ; 
For the sleigh is narrow, and one swift arrow from 

Cupid, the rosy scamp, 
Strikes man and maid from his ambuscade as they circle 

the sugar camp. 

How he smiles next day, as he toils away stirring the 
bubbling trough ; 

For he must wait to know his fate till the night of the 
sugaring-ofF. 

Cupid makes his bows of wood that grows in the sugar- 
thicket's shade, 

And dips each shaft, clear down to the haft, in the syrup 
when 't is made. 

So all ends right, and I say to-night, though we have 
suffered and toiled, 



THE SUGAR cnnp 



19 



We could both forget our sorrows yet in a dipper of sap 

half-boiled. 
When we get to heaven we '11 kiss our folks, then start 

for a happy tramp 
Up toward the headwaters of Paradise, just to work in 

the sugar camp. 




THE COUNTPY POAD 




LD meandering country road, 
to thy track I turn to-day, 
Where the carven beeches spread, and the runnel slips 

away, 
To glint across the shallows and gleam around the 

stones. 
And to croon among the cresses in caressing undertones 
That answer to the thrushes hid within the maple shade. 
Toward the town the wagons creep, along the dusty 

grade. 
Where the old covered bridge, with catalpa blossoms 

snowed, 
lyike an old-fashioned brooch, clasps the old country road. 



I see the brood of butterflies that border every pool 
Beneath the spreading elms, where the shadows are so 
cool; 



THE COUNTRY R07\D 21 

And the rivulets of sheep, flowing slowly past the farms; 
The ballad-singing shepherds bearing lambs in their 

arms; 
And the tawny tiger-lilies, their bells all spider-spun, 
Each with bumble-bee for clapper, ringing matins to the 

sun, 
As I rode from the harvest-field upon the swaying load, 
Brushed by the locust boughs on that old country road. 

There is the little village, so old-fashioned and so snug. 
With the highway's arm around it in the fatherliest hug. 
Where each cottage wears at evening a smoky purple 

dress, 
With a selvedge of the sunset to set off its loveliness. 
Above the door the roses bloom and hide the lintel 

high, 
And along the fence the pansies make a pasture for the 

eye, 
While the open dressers preach all the hospitable code 
Of the friendly ethics common on that old country road. 

if that weaver's lassie, rinsing linen white as snow. 
Could whiten out my soul again as it was long ago ; 

O, perhaps, if I could press again that meadow with my 
face, 

1 could cool my weary heart with the turf of that old 

place; 



22 THE COUNTl^Y ROAD 

And at the end of life, in that ancient burial-plot, 

How sweet would be my slumber — all uncrowded and 

forgot ; 
And I think sometimes my spirit, from its heavenly 

abode. 
Would come down and walk, at twilight, up that old 

country road. 




HIS SWEETHEART'S THROAT 




THAT reminds me — I reckon I 
never told 
This camp how "Wes." won a 
medal of gold. 
I can hear, to-night, the Chancellor say, 
In the southern school down Georgia way, 
"Whoever" — These beans are about the stuff, 
But this bull-beef is so awful tough, 
I can scarcely chew the gravy ; and 
This coffee is hot as a Texas brand, — 
" Whoever is first on the final vote 
Will hang his prize at his sweetheart's throat." 



Well, I kept the tally, and I tell you 
He roped that crowd as clever, and threw 
It as clean as a steer that hits the sky, 
In just two minutes from stirrup to tie. 
I can see, in this crackling mesquite blaze. 
The scene as it was in those old days; 
23 



24 HIS SWEETHCHRT'S THROAT 

The handsome girls, high-born and rich, 
Who beamed on the orators, wondering which 
Would gain the glory, and then devote 
His prize to hang at his sweetheart's throat. 

He is not a saint — he can bite a word 

Into blazing brimstone when his herd 

Is mavericked, and he told " Kid's " breed 

That the timber-wolves on them would feed 

If they lifted his — but I wish you all 

Had seen that classic college hall 

With fine old jewels, and fine new frocks. 

And the boys in buckles and bushy locks. 

When " Wes." came out, in his home-made coat. 

To win the prize for his sweetheart's throat. 

When he cleared the corral and took the track, 

We all stood up, and shook the shack 

With shouts for "Wes.," with his curly hair, 

And his eye like the eye of a Pinto mare 

For fire, and as slim as a yucca stem. 

Stars ! how he turned and swept at them, 

With voice as sweet as the tinkling bell 

On a Brazos spur, and a speech that fell 

Like a silver riata, coiled to tote 

Away that prize for his sweetheart's throat. 

He pulled up the picket-pins, took the lead 
Of that beautiful bunch in a wild stampede 



HIS SWEETHEAm'S THI^OAT 



25 



Up the coulee to heaven and back again. 
Well, I have seen women weep, and men, 
But I say now, when " Wes." marched down 
To his mother, in her linsey gown. 
Who stood there waiting for a kiss, 
And just took her weary hands in his. 
We cried, and cheered, and howled, to note — 
He hung his prize at his sweetheart's throat. 





Hl^ 




HE swing of the sea, the billow's 
long beat, 
Flow thro' this tale that floats 
out of the fog. 
A rude hearse was rattled along an old street; 

No mourner was near it — not even a dog. 
A wandering sailor, blown in from the wave, 

Went up to the wagon that carried the dead, 
Kept close behind till it came to the grave 

Of the stranger, and stood with his uncovered head 
Till the coffin was covered, heaved a deep sigh, 
And said, " I thought some one should just ' stand by.' " 



Hear the moan of the blast, the rain on the beach, 

Curlew's cry thro' the spray, in this man's gentle 
deed. 

Did the wail of his weanlings, who wait for him, teach 
This sun-browned old saint such a heavenly creed? 

Did some fell affliction his own life had felt 

Scud o'er his sad soul as the pauper went past ? 

26 



"STAND BY" VI 

Did unspeakable loss make his sympathy melt 

For a poor, friendless mortal, forsaken at last? 
Did a sob sag his breast, or a tear wet his eye ? 
I know not, and care not, because he "stood by." 

"Stood by" all alone on that wide village road; 

"Stood by" in the bonds of the great brotherhood; 
"Stood by" in the grand old Samaritan code 

That 't is fine to be friendly, 't is good to do good. 
Heaven bless him, and bear him with favoring gales 

To his far-away home. Should the wild tempest 
smite, 
When waves take his deck and winds take his sails. 

Surely One will walk near in the watch of the night. 
Who will say to him softly, " Fear not, it is I. 
I saw thee that day and have come to ' stand by.' " 




"HE LEADETH ME" 




N the Rocky Mountains, 
the engineers say, 
Wherever the water 
dares to come down, 
A railway dares to go up; 
and they 
Coil around the loftiest Titan's crown 
The loops of the lasso of winding track ; 
And up this Romeo ladder they glide. 
To smirch with the murk of the smoky stack 
The stainless hue of the clouds that hide 
The brow of old Blanco, scarred with age, 
"Where we rode that night on the " narrow gauge." 



Startled, we heard the shrill whistle scream, 

And flocks of echoes, scared by its breath. 

Fluttered and flew thro' the hissing steam. 

Near was the summit, but nearer Death 
28 



"HE LEADETH ME" 29 

Stood beckoning us. We felt the lurch, 

And heard the brave engine wrench and strain, 

Then backward, down from the eagle perch 
To the far-oflf valley reeled the train. 

Fear blanched our faces, when one outspoke : 

" Leap for your lives ! the coupling 's broke." 

" The brakes are useless," another one cried, 

As into the gorge, with a cosmic whirr, 
We fell. Let the poets tell the night-ride 

Of Paul Revere, with his red-wet spur; 
Or Sheridan, when the long race was done, 

Smiting Defeat on his boastful face ; 
Of the three who started when only one 

Brought the good news from Ghent to Aix ; 
But the thrill of them all was "in our veins. 
Swept from the peak to the distant plains. 

We followed the foamy stream, and swerved 

Where white stars lay in emerald deeps ; 
Roared through snow-sheds ; leaned and curved ; 

Hung pendulous over the crumbling steeps ; 
Like a meteor burning the midnight air 

Swayed inward, scouring the granite bank ; 
While, crashing amid the cries of prayer. 

Torn from its moorings, the water-tank 
Was hurled and tossed in the clanging car 
That bore us away to the judgment-bar. 



30 "HE LCZ^DETH HE" 

One slip or stumble would surely fling 

Us all through the gate of eternity, 
When a white-haired woman began to sing 

That ancient lyric, "He Ivcadeth Me." 
No wavering air, but clear and full 

It rose and fell on that fearsome din, 
Triumphant as swims a gleaming gull 

Through the ocean storm she revels in. 
Our cradle rocking, the I^ord beat time, 
And we were swinging to that old rhyme. 

Her faith laid hold on the Father's arm ; 

We joined the chorus, and cast our fears 
To the howling winds; there could be no harm. 

With the seas, and suns, and choiring spheres, 
We swung harmonious, rhythmic sweet. 

In the heavenly temple vague and vast; 
We clung, like little ones, to His feet 

Till safely stopped on the plain at last. 
As the train descended our souls had trod 
Up the ladder of song to the throne of God. 





WHERE THE OAK LOG CROSSED THE STREAM 



WHERE THE OAK LOG CROSSED THE 
STREAM 




•■ti'JI #i^ EMORY is busy with the old folks. Like 
that Bible brother's wife, 
We are fond of glancing backward o'er 
the scenes of early life ; 
And to-night, while sitting musing, when the dusk was 

coming down, 
I forgot the children playing, and the murmur of the 

town. 
"When you called me I was driving, thro' the bars and 

down the lane. 
That faithful cow of father's, walking by her once again. 
With my sun-tanned arm caressing her neck's soft vel- 
vet skin. 
And telling her the secrets and the sorrows hid within 
The deep heart of a laddie, when she turned and licked 

my hand, 
And breathed clover-scented comfort any boy could 
understand. 



33 



34 WHEI^E THE OAK LOG CROSSED THE STRETCH 

O a whiff of mint and pennyroyal upon the air did seem 
To blow from Brindle's pasture, where the oak log 
crossed the stream. 

She would meditate a moment, then the coolest place 

would seek, 
Where swaying willow branches trailed their fringes in 

the creek. 
And then set her agate hoofs in the gravel's polished 

gold, 
To dip her dappled muzzle where the violet ripples 

rolled ; 
And such long, delicious drinking, such a thankful up- 
ward look. 
As she plashed, with dripping nostrils, to the margin of 

the brook; 
Then a cloud of mist upblown, and a low, deep-chested 

moan, 
A kind of humble dumb thanksgiving and returning God 

his own ; 
Then along the road together we meandered, slow and 

still, 
Where katydid was calling figures for the fire-flies' 

quadrille. 
And I was wandering in haunted lands of legend and of 

dream, 
While coming thro' the shadows where the oak log 

crossed the stream. 



WHERE THE Om\ LOG CROSSED THE STREHH 35 

I am thinking much this season of the glad old long 

ago; 
Perhaps I am failing, Helen, dear old wife, I hardly 

know, 
And there may be sin in looking back; that Scripture 

sister went 
Thro' a lot of trouble by it — had a dreadful punishment — 
But if she was as happy and half as full of high delight 
While looking o'er her shoulder as I am this blessed 

night, 
Perhaps the end was peaceful. If I was sure I had to 

die, 
And never see another sun arise across the eastern sky, 
I would like to meet the river — the darksome flood of 

death — 
Beside that twilight village road, and, with my parting 

breath. 
Say good-bye to all my loved ones, with the other shore 

agleam, 
And wade out from earth forever where the oak log 

crossed the stream. 





CHRISTMAS Day, 
O Christmas Day 
O Babe, who in the 
manger lay, 
Once more thy star its splendor spills 
Across the sleeping Syrian hills, 
Once more the strange old story thrills 
The mind of man, till, sweet and clear, 
Our songs run round the board, whose cheer 
Makes laughing children leap, and say, 
"O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day!" 



O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day ! 

How selfishness doth melt away ! 
All eyes with kindly joy do shine, 
All lips say "yours," instead of "mine;" 
All hearts receive the Child divine, 



O CHI^ISTI"1?\S D7W 37 

Whose dimpled hands do now caress 

This sad old world in tenderness ; 

Blue breaks through the skies of gray, 
O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day ! 

O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day! 

How every year doth spread the sway 
Of that dear King whose humble birth 
Awoke the anthem " Peace on earth," 
And taught the weary world the worth 

That in the lowly soul may dwell 

Where rules the Prince Immanuel, 

When lyove has had his wondrous way, 
O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day! 

O Christmas Day, O Christmas Day! 
All hate and envy thou dost slay ; 

Buried deep beneath the snow, 

Hid by holly and mistletoe. 

O'er them advent angels go. 
Hark to the choir of chiming bells ! 
This is the story the steeple tells : 

God has come to this world to stay, 

O Christmas Day, O Christmas Dayl 



"HIS nmw' 

IT is told of Angelo, that once he came 
Into the lowly cottage of a friend, 
And found it empty ; yet he left no name, 

But one great curve did swiftly bend 
On the blank canvas near. 

When, on return, his comrade did ex- 
claim, 
" Behold, the Buonarotti hath been here ! " 



I saw a splendid rainbow span the sky 

With its mysterious and mighty arch ; 
In stately grandeur sweeping heaven high. 
O'er which a tempest, with majestic 
march, 
In thunderous music trod. 

" Lo, this small studio, our world," 
said I, 
" Hath this day had a visit from our God." 



"MIRROR LAKE" 




rHEN Day cometh over the dim 
mountain tops, 
She seeth, far down in the en- 
chanted copse, 
Her fair face reflected in that magic glass 
Laid on the lawn where the Merced doth 
doth pass. 
Lo, the vale hangs inverted, enfolded in firs, 
Thro' fathoms of crystal the soaring lark whirrs, 
And seemeth to sink into eternity 
In the marvelous mirror of Yosemite. 

She lingereth there, o'er the sky lintel bent, 
And seeth beneath her the blue firmament, 

Watching the mists of the morning that scale 
The path of the winding and perilous trail, 
The steeps of the Sierra's gray monochrome, 
The storm-smitten summit of awful South Dome, 
When by the great portal of red porphyry 
The sun drives his car into Yosemite. 

39 



40 "niRROR LT^KE" 

Below, in clea-r water, the tall turrets swing, 

The bold cedar-trees to the terraces cling, 
The sevenfold rainbow is flinging its span 
From Bridal Veil Falls unto El Capitan. 

As spun by the sun from the foamy cascade, 

When arching across the aerial glade. 

It looks like the girder of God's balcony. 
From which He looks down into Yosemite. 

Sometimes in the dawning the clouds seem to stand 
On a far-away ledge, like an angelic band 
That pauses in flight, on the opaline verge 
Where the sky and the snow into mystery merge; 
Then Day to the seraphs shouts o'er the abyss, 
"O shining and sinless ones, answer me this: 
Can aught in your heaven of heavens e'er be 
As sublime as this splendor of Yosemite?" 




AT EARLY CANDLE-LIGHT" 

HERE is no night in heaven," 
so the circuit-rider said ; 
Now, blessings on his saintl}' 
heart, and on his silver head, 
He little knew how I had 
dreamed, when all my work 
was done, 
Of meeting, in my Father's 
house my long-lost little one. 
O how my yearning soul shall miss — if heaven has no 

night — 
That hour of all hours the best, " the early candle-light!" 




I know the dawn is lovely when the rosy wreaths of 
cloud 

Fall into purple furrows which the sun has newly plowed; 

The prairie, like an open hearth, on which the day doth 
kneel 

To blow the coals of morning into splendors that reveal 

The colors that are curled within the woven mists of 
white. 

But 't is not so hushed and holy as " the early candle- 
light." 

41 



42 "?rr EARLY CANDLE-LIGHT" 

And sweet the hoou in summer, when thro' the lattice 

blows 
The wind that softly whispers where the cool clematis 

grows ; 
The wheat within the valley bending in the breeze, 
And drowsy cattle wading the tarn among the trees, 
The eagle o'er them sailing thro' the sky of lazulite, 
But it can not bring the comfort of " the early candle- 
light." 

Oft I picture eve in heaven, where not a leaf doth stir, 
"When every harp grows silent, hushed each lute and 

dulcimer ; 
"Where, thro' the quiet twilight, down a path of Paradise, 
Toward the gate comes baby Kate, with gladness in her 

eyes, 
And on the paneled pearl lifts the latch of jasper bright. 
To greet me there when home I fare "at early candle- 
light." 




" DEAD IN KHARTOUM " 








O, Gordon is dead in Khartoum! 
The oak of England is prone ; 
The crape on her banners is 
black, 

The step of her legions is slack; 
Upholding her banner alone 
He has gone to his glorious doom. 
IvO, Gordon is dead in Khartoum ! 



lyO, Gordon is dead in Khartoum ! 
The damp of the Nile on his brow. 
Great Britain, the fateful eclipse 
That lies on his eyes and his lips 
Tells thee how he kept his vow. 
Death came as a bride to a groom. 
Lo, Gordon is dead in Khartoum ! 



44 " DE7\D IN KHARTOUM " 

lyO, Gordon is dead in Khartoum! 
His toil is all over and past. 
O Albion, could'st thou but fold 
His form with thy warriors old ! 
Thou kept the best till the last ; 
Now afar he goes into the gloom. 
I/O, Gordon is dead in Khartoum ! 

Lo, Gordon is dead in Khartoum ! 
But our children shall wear his name. 
Egypt, take him to hold and keep; 
In thy pyramid let him sleep 
"With thy worthies of ancient fame — 
For him will thy gods make room. 
ho, Gordon is dead in Khartoum! 




THE OLD TRAIL 




(al^HRO' columns of cedars begirt with 
i\^7y ferns, 

Over peaks where the pinons climb 
together 
In the crimson glow where the sunset 
burns, 
And the purple fringe of the moun- 
tain heather ; 
Where the otter's pelt, in the emerald pool, 

'Mid dancing foam-bells dives and glistens, 
And the ousel flutes in the aspens cool. 

Where the dappled deer, affrighted listens. 
When she hears our hoof-beats, far away. 
Runs the famous old trail to Santa Fe. 



A highway to heaven. The bearded and strong 
Left white-topped wagons and weary cattle, 

And, bidding this sad old world " So long," 
Their souls went out in the Indian battle, 

45 



46 THE OLD TRT^IL 

Set free by the red Apache spears. 

In clumps of cactus their bones are sleeping, 
Strewn with the skeletons of their steers, 

And a rattlesnake in the white ribs creeping 
Makes a gruesome epitaph, Mate, I say, 
For a freighter who fought on the Santa Fe. 

Those tunicked old settlers w^ere clear grit, 

And I reckon their women even stancher 
Of soul, if a fellow will cipher it. 

You mind that home of the murdered rancher; 
In the crumbling corner the rifle stands, 

With a rotten strap and a rusty buckle ; 
But where is the wife, whose loving hands 

Trained over the porch that honeysuckle? 
And where are the babes who used to play 
'Neath its scented shade on the Santa Fe? 

You have not forgotten the ford, I know; 

That wagon-corral, and the log-fires in it; 
"Old Baldy," lifting his brow of snow, 

As white as your honest head this minute, 
O the yarns we spun, the songs we sung 

Of "home, sweet home" and blue Juniata, 
While up in the pines the new moon hung, 

And — pshaw, old partner, what 's the matter? 
Does it hurt you yet, when your hair is gray. 
What she said that night on the Santa Fe? 



THE OLD TRPilL 47 

Well, he went down at your elbow, Dave, 

In that midnight fracas across the carry; 
You helped us heap up the lonely grave 

In the Cottonwood grove, over handsome Harry. 
We found him dead underneath his steed. 

With his empty sixes and stained serape. 
Just as he fell when the mad stampede 

Flung far from him these two unhappy 
Old chums, who tell of that red affray 
With tears, as they think of the Santa Fe. 

Gone, stirrup, riata, and rowel-bell; 

The bellowing herd, in its wild commotion; 
The breathless rush, from the chaparrel, 

Over the sweep of that grassy ocean. 
But 3^et, my comrade, the road is etched 

On the flowery prairie, fresh and vernal; 
And, dear old friend, when we are fetched. 

By Death, beyond the white range eternal. 
We will wind to the realms of endless day 
Up the shining trail of the Santa Fe. 



s^ 



g^fiJ- 



^.^^^ 



O CHRISTMAS TREE 




'HE Palm is the king of the lands 
of the sun, 
And his touseled plumes are 

tossed 
Where the wild gazelles the 
winds outrun, 
On the marge of the mirage 
lost. 
He stands as straight as a 
temple shaft, 
And his laughing leafage 
green 
Flings fragrant shade on the fountain, quaffed 
By the wandering Bedoueen. 

But no palm-fruit, when peeled, can be 

As sweet as the fruit of the Christmas Tree. 



The Oak is the king of the lands of the corn ; 

When the tempest clouds the skies, 
And walks the world in splendid scorn, 

How its wrath the oak defies ! 
He stands serene, elect, apart. 

And he drinks, from a dewy knoll, 



o cimisTriAS tree 49 

The sap that sings in his shaggy heart 
And strengthens his stout old soul. 

Tho' he boasts of the proudest pedigree, 
He doffs his crown to the Christmas Tree. 

The Pine is the king of the lands of snow, 

Sole lord of the leagues of hills 
Where the stars in shining clusters grow, 

And the moon its splendor spills 
On the edge of the earth's gray parapet, 

Where he taketh the dawn's red torch 
To rekindle the east. This warder, set 

By the pillars of God's white porch. 
Thro' the gates ajar can often see. 
In the Father's house, the Christmas Tree. 

As the kings of old, on their bended knees, 

Bowed down to the Babe divine, 
To-day behold these high-born trees — 

The Palm, the Oak, and the Pine— 
Come over the hills to Bethlehem, 

With their gifts of spicery, 
Lo, while the star that guideth them 

Its refulgence throws on thee. 

The Christmas bells fling, wild and free. 
Thy "Peace on earth," O Christmas Tree! 

4 




EASTER MORNING 



; THE dawn of Easter mornine! O the 
^v sad, sweet day, 



^#^ When thro' the laughing lilies loving 
.%^ Mary went her way 

^ To the place where He was buried, to 
weep beside His tomb, 
ri?* Where the cedar and the willow tree were 
^ waving in the gloom, 

And the myrtle and the almond tree were budding into 

bloom. 
Upon her wistful forehead all the waking wonder shone 
When she saw the gracious angel sitting on the guarded 
stone. 

When she heard him softly say, 
"Lo, 3'our Master is not dead; He is risen, as He said," 
In the dawn of Easter morning. O the sad, sweet day ! 

O the dawn of Easter morning! O the sad, sweet day ! 
When Jesus conquered Death alone, and ended all his 

sway, 
lyist! how Magdalene is calling all the weary world to 

her, 

50 



EH5TER HORNING 5i 

Where she holds the bruised cassia, the balsam and the 

myrrh, 
And stands with gaze enraptured by the open sepulcher. 
See the snowy linen folded, which he nevermore will 

need, 
Hear the happy woman telling that " The Lord is risen 

indeed." 

Now the shouting Christian may 
Stand within that vault and sing, "O Death, where is 

thy sting?" 
In the dawn of Easter morning. O the sad, sweet day ! 

O the dawn of Easter morning ! O the sad, sweet day ! 

When we were all delivered from dominion of the clay. 

Within that burial-garden how the heart grows calm ; 

How the bough of cypress changes into the branch of 
palm ; 

How the wailing requiem rises into the wedding psalm, 

Because our great Emmanuel, the grave could not con- 
tain, 

Comes back to be a comrade with his own elect again. 
In the dusky sunrise gray 

lyooks and speech are just the same, calling Mary by 
her name 

In the dawn of Easter morning. O the sad, sweet day ! 

O the dawn of Easter morning ! O the sad, sweet day ! 
When the resurrection glory on the urn doth play. 



52 



CASTER HORNING 



" lyct not your heart be troubled, your place I will pre- 
pare; 

For you must be beside Me now, wherever I may fare. 

Henceforward all My blessedness My bride will surely 
share." 

O Savior, there is nothing in Thy happy heaven above 

That we desire a portion in so much as in Thy love. 
Often hast Thou heard us pray, 

" Eloi, when all the race is run, welcome us with Thy 
'Well done,'" 

In the dawn of Easter morning. O the sad, sweet day ! 




"LOGAN or ILLINOIS" 

ALLANT brother to Bayard, and 
Sidney, and they 

Who galloped in glory so 
long ago, 
lyike them, without fear or 
reproach, I say, 
With as steady a soul, 
and as stout a blow, 
And as loyal in love which he gave to her 
Whose prayers were the pinions of faith, 
to poise — 
'Mid the smoke, and the din, and the death- 
bolt's whirr — 

" Logan of Illinois." 

O how bright was his sword when he broke 
a path 
Where the bristling bayonets slivered the sun 
Into splinters of gold, as he rode in w^rath 
And never drew rein till the field was won. 

S3 




54 "LOGAN or ILLINOIS" 

Ivike a snow-suckled stream from a crag-crest flung, 

One sudden precipitate shaft of turquoise, 
Born of a breed that old Homer has sung, 
"Logan of Illinois." 

It was splendid to see him sweep into the fight. 
With his dominant figure and dauntless air, 

To speed his flight and to cheer the right 

When the shout of his soldiers shook the air, 

As he plowed his way to the perilous place 

At the battery's breast with his Western boys. 

His great soul lighting his glorious face, 
" IvOgan of Illinois." 

O thou Prairie State, he is dear to you — 
This knightl)^ one who has lately gone 

To sit in the temple beside the two 

Who sleep by the Hudson and Sangamon. 

In the Hall of the Heroes thy children meet; 
High fame the proud mother enjoys, 

Who has Lincoln to welcome and Grant to greet 
"lyOgan of Illinois." 



OUR WHITE LADYE 

sin liaemoriB of iftmctf <CUjabett) WlUarb— 1839-1898 




PALE she lies, in sweet repose ! 
Not whitelier lie the winter snows 
On this sad earth. From her cold 
brow 
Unloose the braided myrtles nov/, 
And bind the wreath of cypress there. 
Put lilies in her hands and hair ; 
Come, gather round her, ye who stand 
" For God, and home, and native land." 

Doth thine anointed vision see, 
Brave daughter of democracy. 
How Church and State together bow 
Above thy casket, weeping now ? 
They loved thee so, best of our best, 
Thou Miriam of the mighty West, 

55 



56 OUR WHITE LADYC 

Who dauntless led thy deathless band 
" For God, and home, and native land." 

No woman cried, "O I,ord, how long?" 
But thou fared forth to right her wrong; 
No man went, shackled, down to hell 
But on his gyves thy hot tears fell. 
Thou this old world in ribbons white 
Didst lift, as loops of cosmic light- 
Upbear it in the Almighty Hand 
" For God, and home, and native land." 

White Ladye, though before thine eyes 
The portals fair of Paradise 
Unfold on thine enraptured view 
The heaven that shone thy white soul thro', 
Though high the victor's anthem swells 
Where thou dost walk the asphodels. 
Still shalt thou lead us, still command 
" For God, and home, and native laud." 




THE BREADWINNERS' BALLAD 




T the break of day and the set of 
sun we hear their heavy tread, 
God's old brigade, all undis- 
mayed, they battle for daily 
bread ; 
And they laugh to know that, 
long ago, the Lord of life and 
death 
Fared forth at dawn, and home at dusk, with them in 

Nazareth. 
Foreheads white for lack of light, or brows all brown 

with grime, 
Their garments black with soot and slack, or gray with 

mason's lime. 
They ring the trowel, push the plane, they travel the 

stormy deep, 
They click the type and clang the press when loved 

ones are asleep ; 
Thro' the city street and the country lane their lusty 

voices ring, 
By the roaring forge in the mountain gorge this cheery 
song they sing: 

57 



58 THE BREADWINNERS' BALLAD 

O we maych away in the early morn, 
As wc did si?ice the world began. 

Do yi't muzzle the ox that trcadeth the corn ; 
Leave a share for the working-man. 



Some are workmen coarse and strong, and some are 
craftsmen fine; 

They set the plow, they steer the raft, they sweat in 
sunless mine, 

They lift the sledge and drive the wedge, they hide 
with cunning art 

The powder where the spark can tear the mountain's 
stubborn heart, 

They reap the fields of ripened grain and fill the lands 
with bread, 

They make the ore give up its gold beneath the stamp- 
mill's tread, 

They spread the snowy sail aloft, they sweep the drip- 
ping seine, 

They waft the wife a fond farewell, and ne'er come 
home again. 

But they march away in the early morn, 
As they did since the ivorld began. 

Don't muzzle the ox that treadeth the corn; 
Leave a share for the tvorking-man. 



THE BREADWINNERS' BALUXD 59 

They make the fiery furnace flow in streams of spout- 
ing steel, 

They bend the planks and brace the ribs along the 
oaken keel, 

They fold the flock, they feed the herd, they in the for- 
est hew. 

And with the whetstone on the sc}' the beat labor's sweet 
tattoo. 

They climb the coping, swing the crane, and set the 
capstone high. 

They stretch the heavy bridge that hangs a roadway in 
the sky, 

They speed the shuttle, spin the thread, and weave the 
silken weft. 

Or, crushed to death amid the wreck, they leave the 
home bereft. 

Bid they march away in the early mor7iy 
As they did sitice the world began. 

Don^t muzzle the ox that treadeth the cor7i; 
Leave a share for the working-man. 

In ancient days they were but serfs, and by the storied 
Nile— 

Unhapp}' hordes ! — they drew the cords around the hea- 
then pile; 

Where Karnak, Tyre, and Carthage stood, where rolls 
Euphrates' wave, 



6o THE BRC7\DWINNCr?S' B7\LL7\D 

Grim gods looked down, with stony frown, upon the 

hapless slave. 
That day is past, thank Heaven ! No more does Man 

the Toiler bow 
His mighty head with fear and dread; for he is master 

now. 
His hand is strong, his patience long, his wholesome 

blood is calm. 
Within his soul sits peace enthroned, and on his lips 

this psalm: 

O we inarch aivay in the early morn. 

As we did since the world begaii ; 
Doii't muzzle the ox that treadeth the corn; 

Leave a share for the workiiig-man. 





THE mountain rose on the summit 
grows, 
Many flowerets are far more fair, 
But the fearless thing doth climb and 
cling 
Far aloft in the shivering air, 
"Where it lifts its bloom and spills per- 
fume 
On the feet of the foremost pine, 
Who leads the van of the forest clan. 
Where the snow-slide sets its awful ban, 
On the edge of the Timber-line. 



lyO, a maid doth dwell on the rim of hell, 
In the end of a sin-cursed street. 

Where the sneers are sped about her head 
And the snares set for her feet; 



62 ON THE TinBCR-LIMC 

Tho' lust may lower, no sweeter flower 

Ever grew on an avenue fine, 
And her heart doth ache to heal and make 
Their souls all white for His dear sake 

On the edge of the timber-line. 

lyO, a man doth stand in the borderland, 

Where he battles for daily bread 
For his children's sake, and doth calmly stake 

His all on his God o'erhead. 
Be strong, my brother, some day or other 

His saints will the stars outshine ; 
We shall with Him sup, He will fill the cup, 
And His own right hand shall lift us up 

From the edge of the timber-line. 





snssnrQi^s 



AINT as the sighing winds which 
fret 
With sweet and subtle harmonies 
//[The silken strands seolian, set 
'■^ In mullions old, come memories 
That thrill and pass, 
Of thy wild bole, which warder stood 
On bygone bournes. Our sandal-wood, 
Slim sassafras. 

I^ike that green tree of life thou sprang 

From out the turf of Paradise, 
The heaven of boyhood, but thy tang 
Of bark and root among the wise 
Tall trees, alas ! 
With leafy laughter did infect 
The woods at thy quaint dialect, 
Rude sassafras. 



Thy spicy root had virtue rare 
The blood to purge and purify; 

But now, amid my toil and care, 
My mind hath medicine, for I 
63 



64 SHSSHPR/XS 

Feel all the crass 
And evil humors of my soul 
Cast off, and thou hast made me whole, 

Rare sassafras. 

If, some blest day, when I shall rove 

By God's great river, all alone, 
Thy breath, from out the healing grove. 
Across the hills is softly blown. 
And o'er the grass. 
The tears that blur my sight shall be 
lyOve's tribute then to youth and thee, 
O sassafras. 




"rOUR rEET ON THE TENDER" 




OUR pictures I see, in a frame quaint and 

olden, 
Aglow in the twilight, half-gloomy, half- 
golden, 
Where big beechen logs, all the fireplace 
filling, 
From out their rude caskets their rubies are 
spilling, 
To roll o'er the hearth in a river of glory. 
The wind in the chimney is crooning a story; 
On walls and on ceiling the shadows are shifting. 
And down the wide flue a few snowflakes are sifting, 
Where brother and sister sit, winsome and slender, 
And face answers face, with " four feet on the fender." 

5 65 



66 "POUR rCET ON THE TCNDER" 

Then later I see a young man and young maiden, 
Whose low, wooing language with fervor is laden. 
I hear his fond question, in fear and in trembling, 
Her gracious reply, without guile or dissembling; 
Then every blithe robin that ever had nested 
Within the brave beech-tree, or ever had rested 
Inside its green tent, when it stood in the thicket, 
Seemed singing again with the shrill little cricket, 
O sweet was their song when the lass did surrender. 
And hand answered hand, with "four feet on the fender!" 

Once more I can see the same happy pair mated, 

Enclosed in the Paradise love has created. 

Around them the children, with riotous laughter, 

Flood all the old room, from the rug to the rafter. 

They play in the splendor the fire is flinging 

Across the broad floor, and the kettle is singing 

Its cheery defi to the storm that is piling 

The gables v/ith snow, and the wee baby, smiling 

In dear mother's arms, makes the father's face tender, 

And heart answers heart, with " four feet on the fender." 

We sing of the Paradise where we are going; 

O fair are its gardens, with pure waters flowing. 

The amaranths blooming, the azure skies arching 

Above the white host of the ransomed ones marching ! 

But I, sitting here, in my loneliness yearning 

For one who has gone whence there is no returning, 



"rour? rEET on the tender' 



67 



Oft picture that place as my own Father's 

dwelling, 
Where she whom I love to the angels is 

telling 
That kindly old Death soon her sweetheart 

will send her, 
And heaven will begin with " four feet on 

the fender. 





"THE RIVER OF LOST SOULS" 



CANON of Las Animas! 

Within thy porphyry portals dim, 
I tread thy gloomy gorge; I pass 
Where writhen waters roaring swim, 
Foam-shredded, down the dark abyss. 
To gnaw thy gnarly granite roots, 
And, round thy boulders curling, kiss 

The sandals of the lordly buttes 
That gaze upon thee, wnth the glow 
Of sunset on their scalps of snow. 

Grim warders of thy grand crevasse, 
O Rio de las Perdidas ! 
Wild Canon of I,as Animas! 

O Canon of L,as Animas! 

Cut saber-wise clean to the core, 
Sword-keen thy skyey cataract has 

Cleft all thy cloudy ledges hoar. 
In one fell sweep, from frost to flowei. 

Aloft, old Winter surpliced sits ; 
Alow, the wolf-cubs crouch and cower 

When thro' the reek the raven flits; 



"THE RIVER or LOST 50UL5" 69 

From where, on tliy sheer parapet, 
The white stars nightly walk vidette 

To the green pools wherein they glass 

Their glory in L,as Perdidas — 

Wild Caiion of Las Animas! 

O Canon of L,as Animas! 

Thro' shambles of the slaughtered souls 
Thy river of the lost, alas ! 

Scuds swiftly o'er skuU-paven shoals, 
Where tethered shades eternally 

Scroll all thy sagging, sunless cliffs 
With God's name, whom they can not see 

In Hades' hopeless hieroglyphs, 
Looking, all dumb and nettle-crowned, 
Upon the blue face of the drowned. 

Gyved hand and foot with graveyard grass 

By Rio de las Perdidas — 

Wild Canon of Las Animas ! 

O Canon of Las Animas ! 

Now is this lying legend peeled 
From thy great fame forever, as 

A ripe fig-skin, and thou revealed 
Sublimest Nature's holiest shrine, 

Where spirits, free from sinful dross, 
Look up, to see above them shine 

The " Mountain of the Holy Cross," 



^o 



THE RIVER or LOST SOULS' 



Ivinteled with heaven and silver-silled, 
Thy templed dome forever filled 

With songs whose cadences surpass 
The strong voice of I^as Perdidas 
Wild Canon of Las Animas! 




THE WHISTLING BOY 




BEDOUIN lithe, bare- 
footed and blithe, the 
rollicking melody 
Which through thy lips so lightsome slips is the ballad 

of " Rosalie, 
The Prairie Flower," and gracious power within the 

ancient tune 
Brings back the day when I rode away, in the buxom 

month of June, 
When the slender stalks of the hollyhocks lifted the 

blooms so high 
Above the wall that they shouted all, "Good-bye, my 

lover, good-bye ! " 
And in tunic 3'ellow a wild bird, mellow and mad with 

tipsy joy, 
Tilted the rhyme of his tuneful chime to the lilt of a 

whistling boy. 



72 THE WHISTLING BOY 

No meadow-lark in the misty dark, when winging her 

upward way 
From cloud to cloud, and caroling loud to waken the 

sleeping day; 
No whippoorwill in the twilight still, lamenting in 

lonely shade, 
Where fireflies seek for her and peek into every glim- 
mering glade; 
No slave refrain, with a warp of pain and a weft of 

psalm between ; 
No aria, trilled to audience thrilled by the art of the 

opera queen ; 
No shepherd's hail in a hawthorn vale ; no mariner's 

" Home ahoy ! " 
Wets my eyes like thoughts that rise with the lilt of a 

whistling boy. 

Thro' happy tears, across the years, on the lowland farm 

I see. 
Driving his line of lowing kine, the laddie that once 

was me, 
Whistling clear, to the thrushes near, that cheery, 

quaint old strain, 
lyoitering slow, in the long ago, with the herd along 

the lane. 
They say that some, when death has come, and all life's 

toil is o'er. 



THE WHI5TLINQ BOY 



73 



On the river brim have heard a hymn float up from the 

farther shore ; 
But at the ford one low, sweet chord will all my fear 

destroy 
If, over the tide from the other side, comes the lilt of a 

whistling boy. 




"THE LILACS" 



on 




NE day in the city, where people were 
pouring 
Along the wide street, with their 
tumult and din. 
Where all the great center of com- 
merce was roaring 
With fashion and traffic, with 
folly and sin, 
Where, in the May morning, the 
wide world was waking 
To life, from the slumber of cold 
winter's spell, 
I saw on the corner a small merchant, 
shaking 
The plumes of the lilacs that grew by 
the well. 

74 



"THE LILACS" 75 

The tall purple lilacs, the sweet-scented lilacs, 
The old-fashioned lilacs that grew by the well. 

I looked, and behold the high buildings all faded 

To far-away hills where the firmament bent, 
And the avenue changed to a river-road shaded 

By elms, in whose shadows my naked feet went. 
A thrush in the thicket was singing a sonnet ; 

Adrift on the breezes, I caught the faint smell 
That came from the bush with the dew diamonds on it, 

Which lifted its blossoms beside the old well. 
The tall purple lilacs, the sweet-scented lilacs, 

The old-fashioned lilacs that grew by the well. 

My weary old spirit waxed younger each minute, 

I flung forty years from my soul when I laughed, 
For there was the well, and the face that was in it 

When over the curbing I gazed in the shaft. 
The squeaky old windlass the same thing was thinking; 

The opal drops into the deep crystal fell; 
While I, from a dipper deliciously drinking, 

Looked up at the lilacs that grew by the well. 
The tall purple lilacs, the sweet-scented lilacs, 

The old-fashioned lilacs that grew by the well. 

And then I saw mother, just as she was leaving 
This sorrowful world for the land of the blest, 

There in her room, where we children were grieving, 
And saying farewell to our first friend and best ; 



76 



'THE LILT^CS' 



When wistful she gazed where the summer sun slanted, 
And, whispering softly, she told us to tell 

Good-bye to the roses her patient hands planted, 
Good-bye to the lilacs that grew by the well. 

The tall purple lilacs, the sweet-scented lilacs, 
The old-fashioned lilacs that grew by the well. 




WHAT YOU DID NOT SAY" 




^HERE is many a word that 
a man may rue, 
And the memory of it will 
make him weep. 
Mayhap some heart that is kind and true, 
Like a red pomegranate is rent in two, 

When out of the soul the passions leap. 
Storming the portals of speech they rush 
Into cruel words that condemn and crush ; 

But the pang that you never may know, I pray. 
Is the woe of the word that you did not say. 



The word that you ought to have said to him 

Who put up his pleading face to ask 
For a father's smile, and whose eyes went dim 
With tears at your answer, stern and grim: 
" O let me alone till I end my task." 

77 



78 "WHT^T YOU DID NOT S7W" 

Now he vexes no more ; yet you often go 
To the grave of the lad you slighted so, 

And call thro' the grass to the quiet clay, 
And sob out the word that you did not say. 

The word you ought to have said to her 

Whom, long ago, you did lovinglj' woo 
With gifts and graces ; but tears now blur 
The sight of the bloom of the lavender, 

That brings old summers again, and you. 
How she lists and longs for the tender tone 
Of the days gone by ! When you stand alone. 
Your face in her lilies you then will lay. 
And wail out the word that you did not say. 

The word you ought to have said — the dear 

Old pair by the fireside need it so! 
It is better to speak, more blessed to hear. 
Your word of praise while they both are near. 

How free would your filial affection flow, 
If you knew how we, who without them trod 
All the way of life, are entreating God, 

Who took them from us, that some time they 
In heaven may hear what we did not say. 



"HARDSCPABBLC AND HIGHSTEEPLE" 




iOUI^D archangel Gabriel, nearest 
the throne — 
The resplendent clasp of that glittering zone 
Which girdeth forever the glory above 
With angelic anthems and lyrics of love, 
The leader of all the great legions who wait 
On the will and the word of the Uncreate — 
Come flying to-morrow with tidings again 
Of peace upon earth and good will unto men, 
Seeking the shepherds would he, in his search. 
Try Hardscrabble Chapel or Highsteeple Church? 



From harmonious surges of that choral sea 
Emerging, and glowing with rapture, would he 
Look for fisherman Peter, tunicked and tanned, 
Or publican Matthew, branded and banned; 

79 



8o "HARDSCRT^BBLl!: AND_HIGHSTEEPLC" 

The harlot whose tears, on the feet of her I,ord, 
Flowed like the oil the Samaritan poured ; 

Or that weary mother whose eloquence won 
Her daughter to health; or the prodigal son; 
Or Zaccheus, leaving his sycamore perch, — 
In Hardscrabble Chapel or Highsteeple Church? 

Would he see those who sought the Master of old ; 
The lost sheep He carried from far to the fold ; 

The sinner whom bloodthirsty Pharisees claimed ; 

The blind and the halt, the withered and maimed; 
The lepers who dwelt in the caverns forgot ; 
The sisters who sobbed in that Bethany cot ; 

The woman that stood by the palms at the well ; 

The penitent thief, who was halfway in hell ; 
Sad souls whom this world had cast into the lurch, — 
In Hardscrabble Chapel or Highsteeple Church? 

Should he but walk, in his white vestiture, 
'Mid the worshipers there, the rich and the poor ; 
See one lapping lambs in its warm woolen plaid, 
One sitting in purple and fine linen clad, 
One breaking its bread to those in distress, 
One hoarding the honey of God's bounteousness, 
One deep in His love as the wheel in the stream. 
One craving to skim gay society's cream, — 
His glorious robes would gather less smirch 
In Hardscrabble Chapel than Highsteeple Church. 




COMRADE HAYES 



HE marched w itli us, — September's sun 
Was bright on bannered Washington; 
From the forum, factory, and farm, 
The East and West went arm-in-arm ; 
Ten thousand shouts on loyal lips, 
Ten thousand streamers made eclipse 
Above that veteran host of blue 
That walked the white-walled avenue ; 
But loudest rose the roar to greet 
The statesman from the highest seat, 
Who came, amid their wondering gaze, 
To march with us, — our Comrade Hayes. 

He fought with us. His glory is 
A part of ours, and ours of his. 
We followed when his charging line 
Swept up South Mountain's red incline; 
Heard his deep voice, above the din 
Of battle, cheer his "Buckeyes" in; 
We saw him, 'mid the missiles' whirr, 
Wade that morass at Winchester. 
See ! how our eyes shine as we speak 
Of that wild day at Cedar Creek, 

6 8i 



82 COMRADE HAYES 

When, cinched with deadly musket-blaze, 
We fought with him, — our Comrade Hayes. 

He sleeps with us, for we are one. 

Beneath the sod, beneath the sun ; 

We guard the rear while those who died 

Are bivouacked on the other side ; 

Some, in the springtime, deck the mounds, 

In Paradise some pace their rounds ; 

But all are one, and aye shall be 

Bovind in eternal comradery. 

You have no part or lot in this, 

Who gave him sneer, or stab, or hiss; 

He heeds not now your blame or praise, 

He sleeps with us, — our Comrade Hayes. 

Columbia, thou who hast, at need. 
Hearts of this high Homeric breed. 
Thy graj^-haired legions weep to-day ; 
The flags are draped, the dirges play, 
The while each soul in sorrow bends ; 
This thrilling summons heaven sends : 
Lift up thy tear-stained face and hear, 
Blown o'er the river, sweet and clear, 
The bugle-call that faints and swells 
Across the fadeless asphodels : 
" Turn out ! " it sings ; " each trump upraise ! 
Turn out to welcome Comrade Hayes ! " 



"THE OLD CIDER PRESS" 








THE old Cider Press, how 
its thin yellow thread 

Runs backward to-night to 
the daj^s that are dead, 
When it fell from the mill with mellifluous sound, 
Where the apples went in, and the oxen went round! 
O the great honest eyes of the slow-moving steers 
Seem to look at me now, like my own full of tears, 
As I smell the sweet odor, which must be, I guess, 
A breath of the past from the old Cider Press. 



O the old Cider Press on the old orchard hill ! 
The brook was the hem and the forest the frill 
Of that outskirt of Eden we called the " old farm," 
Where all knew the Lord and took hold of his arm. 
Mellow Bellflower and Pippin, red Baldwin and Blush, 
All pressed into pulp, as the great cities crush 
The sad human hearts with shame and distress. 
And Satan drinks the brew from the big Cider Press. 

83 



84 



"THE OLD CIDER PRESS" 



O my boy, dreaming there by the dim pasture bars, 
With fields full of flowers and skies full of stars, 
Go not to the town, with its smoke and its grime; 
Dabble not in its dirt ; do not die ere your time. 
O bide where the wind wimples wide o'er the wheat, 
Where the birds, and the bees, and the blossoms repeat 
Your laugh when the lass of your heart answers " Yes,' 
And you both sip the juice of the old Cider Press. 




"THE BOY WHO NEVER RETURNED" 



N the glitter and glow of a day 
like this — 
When the women are lifting their 
babes to kiss 
The hero who wades thro' the 

tides of cheers 
Of the multitudes looking thro' 
mists of tears, 
As he breasted the batteries' iron 
hiss 
In the deathless days — when 
high in the sun 
"Old Glory" is riding the smil- 
ing sky 
On the trumpet's blast, O I miss 
the one 
Who tossed to us all the fond 
" good-bye" 
From his youthful soul, that burned 
With exultant ardor to share the strife. 
Saying that love was more than life. 
Roll slow, O drum ! Wail low, O fife ! 
For the boy who never returned. 
85 




86 "THE BOV WHO NEVER RETURNED" 

This morning his mother bright chaplets made, 
Baptizing with tears each bloomy braid; 

While her wistful eyes were gazing South, 

She whispered the name, with qiiivering mouth. 
Of that warrior lad by the strangers laid 

To sleep where the waves of a lone lagoon 
Break round the grave of her boy in blue, 

And the winds in the cypress thickets croon 
His dirge on the bank of the dark bayou. 

"O my soldier son!" she yearned; 
" O to feel the clasp of thine empty sleeve ! 
O bitterest sweet on earth to grieve 
Above thy dust, and a wreath to leave 

O'er my boy who never returned!" 

List, thou loyal woman, he is not there; 
Did not thy child with his comrades fare 

In spectral battalions along the street? 

We heard no tread of their phantom feet, 
But shadowy banners swept the air. 

And our stormy shouting was meant, in part, 
For the white host, hid from our mortal eyes. 

Who came to comfort their country's heart 
From their tents in the meadows of Paradise. 

Yea, clad in the fame he earned. 
He came from his camp on the crystal rim 
Of the River of L,ife, as he came in the dim 
Old days when the nation had need of him, 

The boy who never returned. 




JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS 

'HE name which fell baptismal on thy brow 
Of that apostle, brother of our Lord, 
Surnamed "the Just," blameless in deed 
and word, 

Fell from a prophet's lips, for "just" art thou. 
And his, surnamed "the Wise," who once did bow 
Above the apple 'neath his garden tree, 
When lo, beside it lay the golden key 
With which we fare thro' all God's mansions now; 
Yea, both of these in thee do meetly blend. 
Themis and Pallas thro' thy spacious verse 
Go gracefully, enamored of thine art; 
Pushing thy fancy's 'broidered tapestry apart. 
They peer where Love doth laughingly rehearse 
Songs which thou singest us. Poet and Poet's Friend. 



mm%®&'iDf 



"JOSEPH" 

EYOND the farthest bourne of Dan 

O'er lands where Heaven has laid 

its ban, 
Like a spent snake the caravan 

Toward Egypt creeps ; 
And oft the wistful Jewish slave 
Looks westward, where the cedars 

lave 
With murmurous shade his moth- 
er's grave, 

Where Rachel sleeps, 
Till his bright eyes, because of mist, 
See not the chain upon his wrist. 

From out the loftiest linteled pile, 
That mingled in the mirrored Nile 
The lotus on its peristyle 

With that mid-stream, 
He looks again, thro' orbs that swim 
In tears, where Jacob, old and dim 
Of sight, comes chanting Israel's hymn 

Of God supreme, 




"JOSEPH " 

And sobs the purple can not check 
Heave the bright chain about his neck. 

Whoe'er for God hath iron worn, 
Jehovah's gold shall yet adorn. 



89 





" LOVE 15 ENOUGH " 

HKY told of our Savior's pain, 
The thorns and the thrilling cry, 
His sorrow when scourged and slain, 
While, over and over again, 
From out my heart I was fain. 
As the Son of Man I did see, 
Ivifted high on lone Calvary, 
To sob out this sad refrain : 
"O what does he v/ant from me?" 



He has angels who sing alway 
His praise, and with glory shine, 
While I in mj^ cottage with mine 
Can only chant day by day 
The sweet stanza, " When I survey 
The cross," and in wonder say, 
" He has choirs by the crystal sea. 
Who, with shawm and sweet psaltery. 
From worship and work ne'er stray; 
Then what does he want from me?" 

When my Walter, our crippled one, 
Who all thro' his life must be 

90 



"LOVE 15 EINOUGH" 



91 



My own burden, said, tenderly, 
" O mother, for all thou hast done, 
What is the reward thou hast won? 
lyO, spirit and strength I have none 
lyike the others who circle thee." 
Thro' tears I said, " Love is my fee," 
And lo, I had learned from my son 
"What my Master doth want from me." 




"ALL'S WELL" 

LL'S WElvIv!" calls the sailor. 
In the phosphorescent 
Path of our prow all the 
planets are still. 
Thro' this prairie of stars 
we plow, as the peasant 
And poet of Scotland his 
white-daisied hill. 
Some looking backward up- 
on the sad severance 
Thro' mists of old mem- 
ories, trying to quell 
The hurt of the heart with the holiest reverence ; 
And some looking forward. On all the cry fell : 
"All's well!" "All is well." 
IvO, every soul's sorrow was lost in the swell 
Of that cheery watchword, "All 's well ! " "All is well." 




"All 's well ! " calls the patriot, clothed in his purity, 

Faithful 'mid those who are fain to betray ; 

Dim thro' the marge of the murk and obscurity 

He sees the dawn of a far better day. 
92 



"TOLL'S WELL" 93 

Declaring our banner to be but the flowering 
Of the centuries' cactus, the last miracle, 

Born of the travail of ages, and towering 
Aloft like the shout of this brave sentinel. 
"All's well!" "All is well." 

And a great "Amen " falls from the high citadel 

Of our nation's Valhalla. "All 's well ! " "All is well." 

"All 's well ! " calls the Christian. Like an anemone 

Blooming 'mid nettles, his faith seems to be; 
He hath no fear, for the Christ of Gethsemane 

Holdeth his heaven and his future in fee. 
He knoweth that love at last will annihilate 

Hate, and for thistle will plant asphodel, 
To make of old earth an Eden inviolate. 

O toss out from the turret the tones of the bell, 
"All 's well ! " "All is well." 
Let no lamentation lift up its sad knell ; 
Sing "Glory to God," for "All 's well!" "All is well." 



"PRETTY SOON" 




dM^ RETTY SOON!" "Pretty soon!" 
How the soft phrase slips, 
With limpid, laughing cadence, 

thro' the languid lips, 
Where the plumage of the palms, by 

the south wind swayed, 
Flings on the fragrant terraces its 

filigree of shade ; 
When the almond and the myrtle 
have taken in their net 
The doves that tread the measure of the tender minuet. 
And the nestlings of the nightingale cuddle low and 

croon, 
To the laughter of the laurel, " Pretty soon ! " " Pretty 
soon ! " 

9d 




" PRETTY SOON " 95 

" ' Pretty soon ! ' ' Pretty soon ! '" cries Youth, " I shall 

make 
My home beyond the happy hills for her dear sake ; 
There I will lead my darling, as Dawn, doth lead the 

Day 
When God is making morning, to sit wdtli her and say : 
' Yon river to its ocean troth will never be more true ; 
The best of life is mine to-day, because of love and you.' 
And heart shall rhyme to heart as unto the summer 

moon 
The swinging sea doth sing, ' Pretty soon ! ' ' Pretty 

soon ! ' " 

" ' Pretty soon ! ' ' Pretty soon ! ' " sighs Age, " I shall see 
That happy home above us, where the many mansions be, 
To pluck the never-fading flowers that make it ever 

sweet, 
And hear the pleasant paces of the silver-sandaled feet, 
When beneath the healing trees they fill the crystal 

urns ; 
O how the soul within me for their blessed welcome 



yearns 



But the band of shining spirits, with lips and lutes in 

tune, 
Bid me wait, and bide their coming ' Pretty soon ! ' 

• Pretty soon ! '" 







HAT IS YOUR Lire?' 



SAITH the Scripture saint, "This life is 

a cloud, 

Which appeareth awhile and vanisheth 

soon." 

Not the cyclone stalking the summer 

noon, 

And shadowing earth with his inky shroud, 

May thy life be, my friend; 

Where the frighted cities, beneath his frown, 

Are caught in the twist of his whirling skein, 

All strewed and spilled on the sodden plain, 

The while the pitiless floods beat down, 

And prayers for help ascend. 
96 



"WH?[T IS YOUR Lire?" 



97 



Not the mocking cloud that is moored in air, 
Upblown from the sea thro' the brazen sky, 
When the swooning world is like to die ; 

And the blinding sun but a baleful glare 
And maddening fervor hath; 

Which seems so happy up there in heaven, 

While men are watching, with choking grief. 
Their harvests wither — bud, bloom, and leaf — 

For lack of the help that it might have given. 
And curse it in their wrath. 



But the rosy cloud with the ripple of rain, 
The lisp and laughter of dripping leaves, 
That sings to the farmer the song of sheaves. 
And patters the tune on the window-pane 

Till the radiant bow doth shine 
In bands of glory around its brow ; 

Till the vine-robed valley, the corn-clad hill, 
The bird and bloom, which have drunk their 
fill. 
Break into canticles, telling how 



-t^t 




Man's life may be divine. 



^\%iA>'.. 



4 



t#?i 



"THE DAY WE SEINED THE DAM" 





HE day we seined the dam, the 
light 
Gleamed on the mullet's golden 
scales, 

When, arching in his arrowy flight, 
He cuffed the glinting jewels bright 

About the boy who held the brails, 
And lit the lake with shining scrolls 

Of radiant rings that roughed its calm, 
As heavenly raptures stir the souls 

Of saints, — the day we seined the dam. 



The day we seined the dam, the brim 

Held all the hamlet's boisterous brood ; 

Each tossed his tunic far from him. 

Waded knee-deep, sun-tanned and slim. 
And stood there unashamed and nude ; 

The tamaracks shook when they laughed, 
And rhythmic strophes, like a psalm, 



"THE DAY WE SEINED THE DHH " 99 

Broke on the shore, as from the raft 

The)' dived — the day we seined the dam. 

The day we seined the dam, a bird 

Told but one tale from birchen boughs 
Wherein the sleeping south wind stirred; 
And down rose-hidden aisles the herd 

Came tinkling to the brink to browse, 
And in tall reeds, all satisfied. 

They stood where billows shook the balm 
From lilies tilted on the tide 

That rolled — the day we seined the dam. 

The day we seined the dam, how slipped 

The stream, in slopes of rainbow spray, 
Down to the depths where alders dipped 
Their beads, like monks who, in a crypt 

For peace, unto the Highest pray. 
O could I plunge in that deep pool, 

With all ni}^ woes, just as I am. 
And rise again as clean and cool 

As then, the day we seined the dam ! 









L. •' C 



•*THE OLD ZION CHUfXIH" 





,^^| THE old Zion Church, on 
aj|i the old country road, 
Encircled with wagons when 
each brought a load 
Of the farmers, who came when the calm Sabbath-day 
Put the plow and the reaper and planter away. 
I can hear "Coronation " flow out from the choir, 
Bubbling over the building and up to the spire. 
Where one pair of bluebirds on Sunday did perch 
Just to join in the hymns of the old Zion Church. 



O the old Zion Church, down its unpainted aisles 
How the river of song broke in ripples of smiles 
As the bride drew her robes from the altar to door 
Thro' sunshine that sweetened the old oaken floor. 
And tears often flowed ; for the whole village wept 
When the bonnie wee babe in its white coffin slept. 
While the good pastor told how Death, in his search 
For the good Shepherd's lambs, came to old Zion Church. 



" THE OLD ZION CHURCH " loi 

O the old Zion Church — I can see it in spring, 
When the orchards enfold it in sweet blossoming ; 
And thro' the long summer it basks in the heat 
Where swift swallows swim the waves of the wheat ; 
To the tone of its bell, on the still Autumn morn, 
The quail whistles alto far off in the corn ; 
And in Winter the snow wraps the cedar and birch 
Keeping watch o'er the graves by the old Zion Church. 

the old Zion Church. — where the oak ever waves 
Its mantle of gloom o'er my ancestors' graves, 
Where mj' father and mother were long ago laid, 
And whippoorwill mourns in the murmurous shade. 
When my time comes to say a farewell to the earth, 

1 would like to return to the scenes of my birth, 
Shake off the old life, leave the world in the lurch, 
For heaven is not far from the old Zion Church. 




:3»*'-2«' '•' . - "*«es ^ ^ - 




"RIGHT ON!" 

" I kept right on." — Grants Memoirs. 

IGHT ON! in the years of war, of clamor, 

and rumor, and woe ; 
Right on ! when tyrants of Europe said 

softly, " God orders it so;" 
Right out of the heart of the West, when 

all the land was dumb. 
Came Grant, and the nation said, "At last 

the mighty man has come." 



Right on ! Against his belted braves old Shiloh's bat- 
teries boomed. 

Right on! Across this hero's path the bluffs of Vicks- 
burg loomed. 

Over Mission Ridge and Lookout Mount serene and 
strong he trod, 

And the loyal North leaned hard on him as he leaned 
hard on God. 



Right on ! when, beside the Rapidan, I,ee stood across 
his path. 

And, overwhelmed, laid down his sword to bide the vic- 
tor's wrath; 



" RIGHT ON ! " 103 

But behold how kindly greetings banish every sharp 

regret, 
As hand in hand the chieftains stand, and both are 

brothers yet. 

Magnanimous, unassuming soul, his stern and martial 

face 
Looked soft as to the boys in gray he said, with courtly 

grace, 
"Go home again in peace, my friends," and then the 

warrior calm 
Came back when all his task was done to wear the 

wreath of palm. 

Right on ! when cowards behind him cheapened his 

kingly fame; 
Right on ! when the paltry enemies pecked at his lustrous 

name; 
"When the kings of Europe applauded him, all courteous 

and mild, 
He kept the soldier's equipoise and the candor of a 

child. 

Right on ! as ruler, the ship of state with steady hand 

he steered. 
And never a hairbreadth, right or left, in any place he 

veered 



I04 "RIGHT ON!" 

Best of the West, thou sturdy type of the sterling, rare 

antique ; 
As soldier, more than a Roman bold ; as a patriot, more 

than a Greek. 

Right on! from his agonized body the spirit has now 

gone forth. 
Pile palm upon his grave, O South, and pine, thou 

weeping North ; 
For, safe in America's Pantheon, our great soldier's 

shade we see, 
With one hand outreached to Lincoln and the other to 

Robert Lee. 





THE BACK LOG'S BLAZE 

106 




THE BACK LOG'S BLAZE 

THE back log's blaze — where the wide arch 
showed 
The gloom above the hearth, where the red 

coals glowed; 
How it made the dusky shadows on the 
white walls lurch 
When the wind around the eaves the crevices did 

search. 
How the cheery cricket chirruped at every childish jest, 
Keeping time in crispy rhyme to the tune he loved the best; 
"When the curly king of home, with all his cunning 

ways, 
"Was cooed and crooned to slumber by the back log's 
blaze. 

O the back log's blaze, — when the lovers softly laughed, 
Then the silence heard the whiz of Cupid's winged shaft, 
And swarming sparkles flew up the open chimney-throat 
To the boughs of bloomy stars in the firmament afloat ; 
The sun of ninety summers split the oaken log, and laid 
A pathway down to Paradise for lover and for maid, 
And paved a golden plaza where, amid the kindly rays, 
The romping children rolled by the back log's blaze. 



io8 THE BT^CK LOO'S BLAZE 

O the back log's blaze, — then the world was fair to me, 
Far whiter than the outer snow the inner purity. 
When winter hounds were baying the cold December 

moon, 
The wooers, hand in hand, went along the lanes of 

June; 
The while the tempest roared, the mother rocked her 

child. 
Then bending o'er the cradle, how wistfully she smiled ! 
What visions of his future rose before her loving gaze 
As she stooped to kiss him gently, by the back log's 

blaze ! 

O the back log's blaze ! I can see it rise and fall, 
Lighting up that happy circle when the family was all 
Gathered near it in the evening in the dear, old place. 
O, I fancy it would smooth again the wrinkles from my 

face, — 
Every tear would disappear like the snowflakes in the 

flue. 
As they fell into the flames that my heart is turning to, 
Could those whom God has taken forget their hymns of 

praise 
And just come and sit together, by the back log's blaze. 



"TAYLOR or ArRICA" 




•AYLOR of Africa, tried and 
true, 
The eyes of the world are 
'\v¥\ ^5» bent on you, 

Bearing your torch in the moral murk. 
Where the awful shapes forever lurk ; 
Proud are we of the dauntless pith, 
Of the glorious heart you front them with. 
Canst thou, old Egypt, match that pair? 
One lying low, one battling there, 
One dead on the Nile with broken blade, 
One erect on the Congo, undismayed. 
Britain gave Gordon, and we gave you, 
Taylor of Africa, tried and true. 



"T7WLOR or AFRICA" 

Taylor of Africa, come and rest 

A night and a day in the mighty west ; 

Bring thy face with visions plowed, 

Thy splendid soul that ne'er was cowed, 

Thy mind which spills through smiling lips 

What thy large eyes see in Apocalypse. 

O your quenchless hope, your manly grain 

Maketh Paul of Tarsus to live again ! 

In shallow forms our souls are fast ; 

As a canon rings to a bugle blast, 

Blow your trumpet our slumbers through, 

Taylor of Africa, tried and true. 

Taylor of Africa, heart of oak. 
Hew Christ a path with sturdy stroke. 
The owls may hoot, the weaklings pule, 
The gilded gewgaws call thee fool ; 
God speed thee in that far-off clime 
And give thy spirit strength to rhyme, 
With the gospel message as it rolls 
The shout of a million ransomed souls ! 
Thou wilt come some day unto the throne 
With troops of her children as thine own. 
Saying, " Lord, hast thou more work to dot" 
Taylor of Africa, tried and true. 



"THE BOY WE NEVER SAW" 




K potters work in common clay, are 

common clay ourselves, 
Just as humble and as homely as 

the jugs upon our shelves ; 
But this child was alabaster fair, 

without a fleck or flaw, 
Sit down here, until I tell you, sir, 

of the boy we never saw. 



One day last fall a likely ball lay on the molding rim. 
And in the shed, at his wheel head, stood this stranger Jim. 
He tied his apron on and tossed a nod across to me. 
Then struck his treadle softly as a master strikes a key. 

He held the mass a moment, then so coaxingly and 

slow, 
With every turn the shapely urn in beauty seemed to 

grow, 
And when the wire cut the work from off his heavy 

wheel, 
We knew he was a craftsman true, from head to flying 

heel. 



112 "THE BOY WC NEVER ST^W" 

Jim had a younkit, four years old, just coming down 

to die, 
A sickly lad who suffered so that the women had to cry, 
Telling how the little tyke, soon as the pain would stop, 
Called for the little kickshaws we sent him from the 

shop. 

We made the queerest cups, and then we made the 

oddest jars, 
With many a dip of smoothest slip, and man)^ curious 

stars, 
We chinked them in the hottest kiln, farthest from the 

blaze, 
Then took our turns to fire them, and took our turns to 

glaze. 

The foreman, in a Bible, found some pictured cups and 

bowls. 
Lovingly we shaped them, sir, with all their ancient 

scrolls. 
He filled them overflowing with the love he sent, to 

say 
That he wanted to come and see us all, but he had to go 

away. 

We all knocked off the day he died. The Chapel 

preacher told 
That shepherds take a lamb to lead a flock into the 

fold. 



"THE BOY WC NEVER SmV" 



"3 



And how the singing seraphs stood around the throne, — 

but la ! 
There is not an angel there to match the boy we never 

saw. 

We potters work in common clay, are common clay 

ourselves, 
Just as humble and as homely as the jugs upon our 

shelves ; 
O we mean to see him some day, sir ! But my old 

eyelids — pshaw ! — 
Begin to leak whene'er I speak of that boy we never 

saw. 




_;^^3-. 





TTTHRO' the garden at morn, 
in cool emerald gloom, 
"Wends the sad woman, 
leaving her lost Sav- 
ior's tomb, 
Swerving on with no look to the skies purple flushed, 
Thro' lithe lilies leaning, expectant and hushed. 
Her unhooded brow with the dawn pallor shone, 
Faring wofully back from the grave and its stone ; 
When, before the believer, who wept for the dead. 
Rose the Master, and just the word " Marj^," he said. 

Lo ! there in the dusk of the whispering palm, 
Her raiment all sweet with the spikenard and balm, 
The myrtle tops burning with sunlight above 
Hung over the sinner, redeemed b}' His love, 
Purer far than the dewdrops upon her dark hair. 
Shaken down by the pink-footed doves cooing there, 
When the laurel's low Litany suddenly stilled. 
At the ringing •' Rabboni " her happy heart spilled. 



HARY 



ITS 



Easter cometh, and Magdalene calls its with her, 
Thro' gray olive shade, to the I^ord's sepulcher, 
Where angelic words at the cypress-hid prison, 
Linked like dulcimers, say unto us, " He is risen." 
Unsandaled and still, with souls all aglow, 
Drawing near we see Death, our discomfited foe, 
Folding all the fine linen Christ never will need, 
With face strangely soft, saying, " Risen, indeed." 




THE BLurrs or kickapoo 




'the bluffs of Kickapoo!— the 
bluffs of Kickapoo ! 
Forever on their foreheads fair 
gleams the morning dew. 
Oft have I seen the king of day upon 
the summit stand, 
And pour a flood of glory over all the prairie 
land, 
And then beheld him bending unto the river's side, 
lyike one who cometh gallantly to claim a comely bride ; 
And fling her veil of shining mist far up into the blue, 
To float in fleecy clouds above the bluffs of Kickapoo. 



the bluffs of Kickapoo ! — the bluffs of Kickapoo ! 

1 see the bridge beyond the ridge, I see the shallows, too ; 
Beneath the alder bushes, how shines the sparkling ring. 
Made by the leap of croppie, or the dip of swallow's 

wing! 




THE BLUFFS OF KICKAPOO 

117 



THE BLurrs or nckt^phdo 119 

The blossoms of the tangled plum are full of sweet per- 
fume, 

The flight of startled redbird lights up the spicy gloom. 

No summer day was long enough when it was spent 
with you, 

And night was never welcome on the bluffs of Kickapoo. 

O the bluffs of Kickapoo ! — the bluffs of Kickapoo ! 
Though far away, my soul to-day doth bring them into 

view ; 
Amid the trees, around their knees, my boyish heart is 

hid, 
"Where gossips tell, thro' all the dell, what little Katj' 

did. 
And here, among the city streets, how oft my spirit 

yearns 
To hear thy ripples rhyme again, amid the fringe of 

ferns, 
O for one hour of that old joy, when all my life was 

new, 
To climb the path to heaven up the bluffs of Kickapoo ! 





" VICTOR HUGO 



O he is dead, you say! that dauntless 
king who loomed 
lyike a snowy mountain, above 

the pines of France. 
So now he clambers sunward, 
with spirit all illumed. 
And leaves his weary frame in the 
grave's deep trance. 
While all his loyal comrades, beside 

the leader's tomb. 
Grope, baffled and bewildered, thro' 
the cold, gray gloom. 



Dead, with his ^tna heart all burned to ashes now; 

The eloquent, resistless lips silent in the dust; 
That pen which wrote the doom upon Napoleon's brow, 

And jarred his rotten throne, is laid away to rust. 



VICTOR HUGO I2T 

Loved by God and little children, O honey-hearted man, 
How shall the world go onward, with no Hugo in the 
van? 

The last of the immortals, latest of the lofty strain, 

All suckled in adversity, who tugged our sinking 
race 
Out of miry shamelessness. To keep thee we were fain, 
But lo, the lyord hath called thee to th)^ exalted place, 
Where the others all await thee, crowned and battle- 
scarred. 
To greet thee at thy coming to receive thy rich reward. 

A prophet named thee Victor, thou who hast never 

failed ; 
When God had need of man, singer, seer, and sage, 

all three, 
Thou righteously didst smite, never doubted, drooped, 

nor quailed; 
For fifty glorious years led the hosts of Liberty. 
When the Future saj-s to France, "O name thy noblest 

soul," 
She will show, with radiant face, thy name upon her 

scroll ! 




<^ 



ORTY, and straight as a Norway fir, 
and yet I clean gave way 
To-night, dear wife; to save my life, 

I knew not what to say. 
Back came hurrying memories, like 
doves that homeward fly; 
How they gave us cheer for every year! O swiftly they 

went by, 
Freely as God spilled streams of suns to sweeten the 

abyss, 
When the clump of chaos blossomed into worlds like 

unto this. 
I spake for you, and the wee ones too, but O my eyes 

were blurred. 
When all was done for every one, and I came to the 

parting word ; 
With all my soul, like the open scroll of the stainless 

heaven, I 
Said, " Old Bible and old pulpit, and old Shiloh Church, 
good-bye ! " 



THE L7\5T SERnON ^23 

Silence, like the spaces vast, and feeling, profound as 

the sea. 
Came o'er them when I fondly told what they had done 

for me. 
Thro' loving smiles along the aisles I went to take my 

stand ; 
And manfully I tried to say, as I grasped each friendly 

hand, 
"God fold you fast!" but failed at last when up came 

Abner Smith, 

His face lit with the great big heart he loves his chil- 
dren with. 

And, when they brought him forward there, he stam- 
mered, and began, 

" I was only a drunkard when you came, and now I am 
a man;" 

And then his wife so sadly said, " 'T is hard to hear you 

tell 
The old Bible, and old pulpit, and old Shiloh Church 

farewell ! " 

When to-morrow, at the break of day, that harvester, 

the sun. 
Shall husk the early shadows from the hill-tops, one by 

one, 
And by the winds of morning the shreds are swept, and 

whirled, 
And piled upon the porphyry plain that rims the wak- 
ing world, 



124 



THE LAST SERMON 



When the torch of dawn among them makes all the 

east to glow, 
Then, with onr babes around us, we will both arise 

and go 
Back to the humble building, and, with all our hearts 

and minds, 
Sing the song we 've loved so long, — "Blest be the tie 

that binds," 
And with a sigh say fond " Good-bye," till Shiloh 

Church we greet 
Thro' other eyes in Paradise, childlike round Shiloh's 

feet. 




SOMETHING IN THE SUMMER 




'HEN the mower cuts the 
clover, and the swallow 
skims the corn, 
And the cockerel is telling he is glad that he was born ; 
When the dawn is rich with robins, piping in the 

poplar trees, 
And, deep within the hollyhocks, you hear the honey 
bees; 
When the quail calls up his covey, by the whistle of his 

name, 
In the plaited old fence corner, with its Indian pinks 
aflame, 

O something in the summer seems to say, 
Sip the sweetness of the nwrning, while you may. 
For Love will sooji be wingi7ig on his way — 
Something in the sumtner seems to say. 
125 



126 SOHETHING IN THE SUHMER 

When the wheat upon the hillside, in bending billows 

rolled, 
Is tossing scarlet poppies high upon its waves of gold ; 
When by the tree the baby, whose father binds the 

sheaves, 
Is laughing at the squirrels hid among the lisping 

leaves ; 
When reapers rest at noon within the ample leafy 

shade. 
Where the oriole is swinging in his emerald ambuscade, 

O something in the summer seems to say, 
Sip the sweetness of the morning, while you may. 
For Love will sooii be zvingi^ig on his way — 
Something in the summer seems to say. 

When the blackbird, in the tree-top, is tangled in his 

song, 
And the catbird gives him challenge, whether right or 

wrong ; 
When the speckled hawk is sweeping across the 

distant sky, 
And friendly sheep are grazing all about you, as you 

lie 
Looking down some river bend where a bit of blue doth 

shine. 
So vaguely thro' the curtain of the trumpet creeper 

vine, 



SOnCTHINQ IN THE SUriHER 127 

O soincthhig in the summer seems to say, 
Sip the szueet)iess 0/ the morriing, tvhile you 77iay, 
For Love will soon be wijiging on his way — 
Something in the sicmmer seems to say. 

When all the hills are hazy, and the heated hollows 
make 

An echo to the pheasant, drumming deep within the 
brake , 
When you loaf, and look and listen, where honey- 
suckles sway 
Their lamps in dim savannas, dreaming back a happy 
day; 

When you drift with sleepy lids, by sheer laziness op- 
pressed, 

Thro' the languor of the spirit, when you only think of 
rest, 

O something hi the summer seems to say, 
Sip the sweetness of the morning, while you may^ 
For Love zvill soon be winging on his way — 
Something in the summer seems to say. 

When nature doth entice you with a hundred soothing 

charms. 
And you feel yourself enfolded in her strong maternal 

arms; 



128 



SOHETHING IN THIZ SUHHER 



And peace comes down, so soft, upon the weary 

heart and brain, 
You break the heavy shackles and the soul doth see 
again, 
All the visions of the future, long forgotten, drawing 

near. 
All your hopes and your ideals calling unto you so clear, 

O something in the summer seems to saj', 
Sip the siveetness of the morning, while you viay, 
For Love ivill soon be zuingijig on his way — 
Something in the summer seems to say. 





U4-^ 






WHERE THE CORK GOES DOWN 



"WHERE THE COPK GOES DOWN" 



HEN your wife has gone to 
visit where mother dear 
resides, 
And you could not win a battle, 

if you owned both sides, 
When you become so weary 
that you can not turn a 
wheel, 
And drag yourself to labor with a 

weight at either heel. 
And quarrel with your shadow and 
give the folks the "blues," 
There is an ancient medicine that every man 

should use. 
And its name is " go a-fishing." Get a long 
and limber pole, 
With some tackle and a can of bait, and start toward 

the hole 
Out beyond the river bend, about a mile or two from 

town, 
Just to loaf and lounge at leisure where the cork goes 
down. 

131 




132 "WHERE THE CORK GOES DOWN" 

Some meander to the mountains cool, and some toward 

the sea, 
But I will take my chances underneath the chestnut tree 
That lays upon the sloping bank its shadows deep and 

wide, 
And flings its raveled blossoms down upon the lazy tide. 
There all my troubles tumble with the turtles out of 

sight, 
"When from the yellow stubble comes the yodel of " Bob 

White;" 
And there I speculate in futures just as freely as I like, 
For I may pull out a muscalonge, a pickerel, or a pike; 
But the hope upon my features fades away into a frown 
When a "pumpkin-seed" deceives me where the cork 

goes down. 

Some say, "Work your muscle if you want to rest your 

mind," 
I say, " IvCt them both relax when health you want to 

find. 
Take a dose of doing nothing; take it on some river 

shore. 
Where a flicker far above you raps upon a sycamore. 
And a devil's darning-needle gads around you just as 

glad 
And contended as the poUywog upon the lily pad." 
O when your hook is fastened in a lusty, leaping bass. 
And at the battle's ending you can lay him on the grass. 



"WHERE THE COQW GOES DOWN" i33 

You feel so full of spirit from )^our shoes up to your 

crown 
That your life will be worth living where the cork goes 

down. 

A chap who studies eating, says that fish is good for 
brain : 

I think it is the fishing, not the fish, that gives the gain ; 

For I have noticed that the fellows let imagination play 

Round the wonderful dimensions of the one that got 
away ; 

And the stories chase each other, just as chipper and as 
free 

As the squirrels winding streaks of red around the elm- 
tree. 

O when the sur is near to setting, your soul begins to 
sing 

As you purchase from a country boy a dozen on a string, 

And you march home in the evening a romancer of re- 
nown, 

Telling how you missed the big one where the cork 
goes down. 



"WHERE APE THE HEROES?" 




HERE are the heroes of old days?" 

He asks, and lifts his lyre, and chants, 
In sounding psalm, the meed of praise 
Due to the dead itinerants ; 
The men who, fearless, trod the maze 
Of unpathed forests, sailed the sea, 
Preached, prayed, and rode with Asbury, 
That Christ might have sole empery. 
"Where are the heroes of old days?" 

The while beside him men say this: 

"Send us where souls in sorrow die; 
Where heathenism's brood will hiss 

In hell's dread dialect, when high 
The cross of Calvary we raise ; 

To serve where Satan has his seat; 

To warm them with our own heart's heat ; 

And, when 't is done, say death is sweet." 
"Where are the heroes of old days?" 

Their hymns are heard in canons cold. 
By blight or blizzard undismayed; 



" WHERE Z^RE THE HEROES ? 



135 



The frontier's farthest farm they fold 
In Jesus' love, and with Him wade 

The Siddim's slime of, city ways; 

Thro' crying want and crushing debt 
Give one their tears and one their sweat, 
And, dying, ask of God to get — 

" Where are the heroes of old days." 




"JIM'S MEETING 




UR dear old pastor used to 
preach, as natural as 
a bird, 
Just the cheery kind of 
sermons that a bobo- 
link can pour 
Upon you from a cherry- 
bough, whenever he 
was stirred ; 
His wooing talk would almost win the fishes to the 
shore. 

But he wandered off one day, 
In a curious sort of way, 
And got badly "in the brush," as the circuit-riders 
say. 



Down at Ebenezer Chapel there was meeting; every 

night 

The parson pleaded tenderly, though he was weak 

and worn, 

136 



"jin'S nCETING" 137 

Saying, " Come, my neighbors, come ! O come into the 
light, 
To stand with us together in the dawning of the 
morn ! " 

And when he stopped to cough 
Not a sinner dared to scoff, 
From the graybeards in the corner to the lovers far- 
thest ofif. 



Then his voice went to a whisper — he could not speak 
at all ; 
And next evening I saw Jim, the ragged child of 
cobbler Wood, 
Shivering at the crowded entrance, close against the 
outer wall. 
Till he called the preacher over in the corner where 
he stood. 

And he said, " I heard them pray, 
At our home, for you, to-day, 
And I went out and dug some medicine to drive that 
pain away." 

"God bless you!" said the preacher to the boy so thin 
and cold. 
And unwrapped the little parcel with his gentle, 
patient smile ; 



138 "jin'S nCETING" 

'T was a stringy root of calamus, in brownish paper 
rolled, 
But I saw his face was beaming as he elbowed up 
the aisle. 

Then he read a tender hjann, 
And in prayer my eyes were dim 
As he knelt there, reaching up for God and down for 
little Jim. 

"When he rose and read a Scripture like a dripping 
honeycomb, 
O I saw the gift had cured him, for, my friend, he 
fairly took 
That crowd, and led them captive all into the Father's 
home; 
Beneath his melting pathos stoutest sinners swayed 
and shook ; 

As a river deep and wide 
Shoulders at a dam, he cried, 
" Come, lyord ! " and when it tottered all the town was 
in the tide. 

All around the mourners' benches people gathered with 
a rush, 
And amid the praying penitents disciples worked 
and wept; 



"JIM'S necTi NO" 139 

But he could say no more — he had strayed into the 
brush; 
Lost in some Eden thicket, while the stream of 
mercy swept 

All about the young and old, 
And a hymn of joy was rolled 
From the lips of shouting converts, coming safe into 
the fold. 



When Wood, who was converted, went singing down 
the road. 
The preacher walked beside him, just to tell his 
faithful wife. 
And they filled the lowly cottage full of melody that 
flowed 
Until midnight, for a man redeemed and started new 
in life. 

And often I have cried, 
As he has told, with pride, 
Of "Jim's Meeting," as he called it to the very day he 
died. 




"THE BROOK" 

OW it bubbles clear in the cool, damp room, 
Where the pans of milk light up the 

gloom, 
All sweet with breath of the summer 
bloom 
On the swaying locust boughs, 
Where the cobweb lace doth the walls 
adorn, 
When the passionate sun at the peep of morn, 
Breaks into the nook where the brook is born. 
In the lowly old spring-house. 

Down beechen bluiFs to the blue-grass plain, 
It winds the thread of its silvery skein 
On the old mill-wheel again and again, 

Where the jocund miller sings; 
Mid briery mazes, thro' blossomy meads, 
Where trout leap up at the drifting seeds, 
And the cat-bird dips the alder's beads 

In broken ripples and rings. 

How it shimmers and shines across the sand 

To the winey tarn, where cattle stand, 
140 




-■ .>, 4 . .. ■ jll!.';!' 






m i 



n 




«)• 



THE BROOK 

141 



"THE BROOK" 

When the heat is heavy on all the land, 

Deep in the shady pond, 
And from all the hives the buskined bees 
Fly out to the orchard to rifle and tease 
Their sweets from the spreading apple-trees 

On yellowing hills beyond. 

And when all oblivious it hath flowed, 
By the pasture-field and the winding road. 
To the doorwaj^ of many a cot, and showed 

Its cheery, laughing face; 
And reluctant, slow, it comes to the sea, 
How I wonder if ever it turns like me. 
To the ancient room and the locust tree, 

And thinks of its old birthplace. 



143 





THE DOGWOOD TREE 

jRIDE of the woodland wide, dainty and unde- 
filed, 
Bright is the blessing thy beauty doth bring ! 
When April leadeth thee, with thy white 
garments free, 
Up from the South, in the front of the Spring, 
Shaking the snow of thy bridal robes sweet, 
Flowing, in foamy surf, down to thy feet, 
Bride of the woodland wild, dainty and undefiled, 
Thee we are waiting to greet. 

Winter has lingered long ; O how we miss the song 
That always welcomes thee over the hill. 
The bold chee-wink, chee-wink, of the gay bobolink, 
And the low call of the coy whippoorwill, 
For thee doth the morning lark scatter the night ; 
For thee doth the tanager flash in his flight. 
Bride of the woodland wild, dainty and undefiled. 
Haste thee to dawn on our sight ! 

How thou wilt miss the one, who was the first to run, 
Laughing, to meet thee along the lone glen ! 

144 



THE DOGWOOD TREE 



145 



Swallows are making search, and from the graceful birch 
Kingfisher calls her again and again, 
lyong will the wren wait to show her small nest, 
And the brown fledgelings beneath her proud breast, 
Bride of the woodland wild, dainty and undefiled, 
Darling has gone to her rest. 





GOD'S MANUSCRIPT 

PON the hallowed ground of Galilee, O John, 
Thy Master writeth, while the wolfish 

crowd 
Bends lowering looks upon the woman 

bowed, 
Cursing her lovely face, so tearful and so 
wan; 
Still asks the deep heart of mankind, which sees 
Her streaming eyes fixed on the brow divine, 
" What was the import of that single line 
Writ by the gracious Christ amid the Pharisees?" 
Saying, " O to have seen upon the favored sod 
Those jewels from the forefinger of our God ! 
Go forth this morn in May, where, all unrolled. 
The daisied meadow lies, signed o'er with gold ; 
In flowery text he writes his gospel as of old ! " 



X46 




THE UNKNOWN 

>ACK swings on the mast; his heart ne'er 
quakes 
When Euroclydon tumbles the sea, and 
takes 
His ship, like a harp, in his hands, and wakes 

From every rope a wail. 
He has weathered a hundred storms before ; 
And his faith will weather a hundred more, 
But the roaring stress of a street ashore 
Makes him cower and quail. 

Dick plays his part in the mart's mad rush, 
As calm in the din of its deafening crush 
As a fawn at dawn, in the purple hush 

Of the palms of Paradise. 
He dreads the deep, where the wild waves comb 
Their crests on the breasts of gulls that roam 
Thro' the spra)% as gray as the flying foam 

That flecks the lurid skies. 

Each wonders at each, for both can bide 

The known, but fear what they have not tried, 

147 



148 THE UNKNOWN 

So man doth shrink from the echoless tide 

Where waits the boatman pale ; 
Kindly Death doth smile at his freight afraid, 
And strips the mist with his oar's swift blade 
From the strand where the band, in white arrayed, 
Shouts, "Welcome, and all hail!" 




ON CHRISTMAS EVE 




^N Christmas Eve, in this 
dim room, 
There drifts across the 
deepening gloom 
The faint, old-fashioned, spicy scent 
Of mistletoe and holly blent; 
And while the cheery wood-fire burns, 
She whom I loved and lost returns 
To sit beside me, — soft and low, 
I hear the voice which, long ago, 
Around my heart a spell did weave. 
When life was young on Christmas Eve. 



On Christmas Eve I see the pond, 

And from the hollow woods beyond. 

Comes echoing back the skaters' glee, 
149 



ISO ON CHRISTHAS EVE 

As happy sweethearts swinging free, 
In rhythmic stroke and graceful curve 
Across the crystal surface swerve. 
O eyes of blue ! O curls of brown ! 
O streaming scarf! O fluttering gown! 
How doth your lover lonely grieve 
When all are glad on Christmas Kve ! 

On Christmas Kve, along the street 
The people pass on eager feet. 
With gifts to greet the gladsome morn 
Of that blest day when Christ was born. 
Bach to his own will cry, " Take this ! " 
And each will share the smile, the kiss, 
While I alone shall try, thro' tears. 
To count the sad and sombre years 
Since that dark day when thou didst leave 
This world all cold, on Christmas Eve. 

On Christmas Eve I envy not 

The laughing ones, whose happier lot 

It is to join the scenes of mirth, 

And cry, rejoicing, "Peace on earth!" 

Some day I feel I too shall win 

My Father's house, and enter in; 

For by the portal she doth bide, 

Robed and expectant as a bride; 

Then all her love I will receive. 

In God's good time on Christmas Eve. 




COMMON THINGS 

HAVEN send us a prophet with wit to 
teach 
Our race, which to folly so fondlj^ 
clings, 
That all that is good is within our reach, 
The cream of life is the common 
things. 



We may have no turreted palaces piled 
In high colonnade and pillar and cope, 

But forever the mountains undefiled 
For us thro' the roseate azure slope. 

There never was park like the prairie lawn. 
Nor symphonies like the ocean's song, 

Nor picture to match the amethyst dawn, — 
These blessings to all of our kind belong! 

No wine gives the fillip of frosty air ; 

No satin e'er came from a foreign loom 

As white as the sheen of the lilies fair. 

Wan acolytes lighting the woodland gloom. 
151 



152 COnnON THINGS 

Because the bright river is free to all, 
To man and beast, to flower and tree. 

And on every sinner the sunbeams fall, 
The sun and the stream are dear to me. 

We have winds that silver the dusky rill ; 

The forest of pines, with healing breath; 
And friends and home, and love, and still 

The best of all, our old neighbor Death. 




PICTURES Or~ THE PAST 




OD is good to let us keep in 
mind the pictures of 
the past ; 
And sometimes in the sum- 
mer, when the seething 
city's clack 
Flings sorrow on my 
fevered soul, I take the 
outward track, 
And from off my weary spirit 
all the slavish burdens 
cast. 
O leaving work half-done, 
Far away from care I run 
To where a brook winds thro' a wood and wimples in 
the sun. 



I saunter in the tousled grass that tangles round my 
feet; 
High above my lifted head, where the tulip-trees are 
crossed, 

153 



154 PICTURES or THE P7\5T 

In her cool and airy cradle, the cardinal-bird is tossed ; 
While the emerald grove is girt with the gold of wavy 
wheat, 

And the rivulet is traced 
By a thread of silver, laced 
Thro' ferns and fair white lilies wading in it to the waist. 

Far away I hear the murmur by the dripping mill-wheel 
made; 
Dewy roses light the thickets, where ring-doves coo 

and croon ; 
From the levels comes the music of the mowers' 
harvest tune. 
All rejoicing in a cadence to the swish of sharpened 
blade. 

While the quail in coveys rise, 
Whirring from the gleaming scythes, 
And the frightened rabbit leaps at the harvester's loud 
cries. 

The unwithered bloom of bramble winds the fences in 
its wreath ; 
Where the squirrel sits and chats with the reiterat- 
ing jay ; 
And the honey-burdened bee doth halt, upon her 
homeward way. 
Where sumach spreads its branches over partridge-eggs 
beneath ; 



PICTURES or THE PAST I5S 

On distant slopes the sheep, 
In long shadows lie asleep, 
And across the winding path I watch the tortoise slowly 
creep. 

Far down the lane the oxen strain against the polished 
yoke, 
As they draw the creaking wagon up toward the 

traveled road ; 
And the laughter of the boj^s that ride upon the 
fragrant load 
Has scared the speckled hawk from his perch upon the 
oak; 

For, with a sudden cry, 
He mounteth up on high, 
And wheels in burnished curves upon the dappled 
summer sky. 

The anise and the spice-bush have brewed a rare perfume, 
Along the woodland edge, where the workers rest 

from toil. 
Floats the smell of meadow-sorrel, the scent of penny- 
royal. 
Mingled with the breath of balsam and the wild grape 
bloom. 

Once more I sit and sing, 
Within the forest swing. 
Where, enamored of the murmurous tree, the vine doth 
cling. 



156 



PICTURES or THE PAST 



Thro' the Babel of the town, high above the whistle's 
scream, 
I hear the modulated chirring of the shrill cicada's 

voice, 
And oblivious of my labor, make again my youthful 
choice 
Of the berries from the brier, or the pebbles from the 
stream ; 

A glow of love is cast 
Over all my life at last. 
As Fancy turns the pages of the pictures of the past. 




:irr 



1899 



'■'^''^"wiiiiiiSSSfiiir 

015 863 572 



